


On A Pretty String

by geographer



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Love, leo doesn't seem to notice, mention of past (consensual) underage sexual encounter, or does he?, zo loves leo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geographer/pseuds/geographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were key movements: clothing gradually being discarded, Zo’s arm slipping around his friend’s pale, trim waist, and the mysterious page which Leo had been clutching fluttering to the floor, forgotten. </p><p>(a series of Leo/Zo one-shots, in progress)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Starz. 
> 
> title is taken from the song "Another Love" by Tom Odell. 
> 
> please leave comments! they'll help updates come faster!

I.

Zo believes there must be an imbalance somewhere within Leo’s mind; one which travels through the man’s body before reaching his fingertips. The base of Da Vinci’s palm is braced against the sketchpad as he works, the fingers of his right hand fluttering in a motion that reminds Zo vaguely of ripples on water. The meaning of all this is simple, however: Leo’s mind is fast at work.

Just across from where they sit in the piazza, Lucrezia Donati stands browsing through flowers at a market stall. Her dark, flowing locks have been echoed by Leo’s hand onto a clean page.

He can see the keen fascination in Leo’s stare, and he hates it.

“She’s appealing, I’ll grant you that,” Zo mutters, and is hardly able to remember what comes after, as focused inward as he is. Jealousy, bitterness breaching his lips. Every word is nonsense.

“You’re just being contrary,” Leo dismisses.

The truth is that Zo can’t help but feel drawn to Leo’s sleek form, that feral laugh, or the way the artista’s eyes appear dark as pitch in the lamplight. These aren’t thoughts that a man should be having in dear Florence, but admittedly, Zo has hardly ever done what he should. 

“Nico, run this over to her,” Leo instructs as he tears Donati’s sketch from his journal, handing the parchment off to their young friend. "Make sure she knows who it’s come from.”

The boy readily obeys, and Zo’s joy of spirit collapses, ever quietly, just as Leo’s rises like steam.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It began like this.

**II.**

They had known each other since childhood, but it was not until they were both nearly men that they had become familiar in a new sense of the word.

It’d been a balmy day in the city, and nearly dusk, when Leo had led Zo back to his room situated above Andrea’s workshop. There’d been a promise of a gift: a dedicated work of some sort. Zo hadn’t had any responsibilities, and so followed Leo quite willingly from his hovel near the river. This wasn’t an uncommon practice. For all his grumbling about “damned scavengers”, Andrea was charitable toward Zo, going as far as to invite him to meals when surplus was available. The reason? Quite honestly, Zo was the best to be found of Leo’s few friends, and isolation was not something he wished to encourage in his protégé.

It wasn’t until they’d arrived in Leo’s room that Zo sensed something was off.

“Where is Andrea? He’s always skulking about.”

Leo walked briskly over to his desk and began pawing through a pile of sketchwork.

“Out,” the younger replied.

“Out?”

“Negotiating the terms of a commission,” Leo huffed as though annoyed by the most basic clarification. Zo wasn’t insulted; such was the boy’s nature.

“What are you looking for?”

“No matter,” Leo replied, at last taking a page from his desk. He folded it gently, no doubt so as to veil its contents from Zo’s gaze. He turned to face his companion then, and took a step forward. “I must ask you something.”

“If you’re going to ask whether I’m hungry, the answer is yes,” Zo groaned.

“No, no…it’s of a more personal nature,” Leo laughed, resting his hand on the bedpost.

“Go on, then.”

Leo hesitated at first, but the words fell into place.

“That boy down by the docks. Have you fucked him?”

Zo gaped.

“What the _fuck_ Leo!”

“Have you?” Leo pressed.

“What? _Who_ , the towheaded one?”

“The very same.”

“He’s younger than us both,” Zo stated in disgust. “I don’t even know the boy’s name. Where is this coming from?”

No response.

“I’ve never inquired after your lineage, Zo,” Leo mused.

“Why all these invasive questions? Leo, are you sick?”

“I’m sorry,” he retracted. “I’m just curious as to where your features come from.”

Zo had never known, and tried to pretend every day that he had never cared. His looks were dark enough to cast him as foreign, untrustworthy in the eyes of most Florentines. That was all that’d ever mattered.

Silence on his friend’s part, Leo moved close before quietly adding: “They’re like art.”

Zo had suddenly lost his tongue. Judging by how he felt, it was somewhere down in the pit of his stomach. But he’d caught on to the game, just as Leo’s fingers were beginning to wind themselves in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer.

“What are you doing?” Zo was barely able to muster.

Leo looked up at him with his dark eyes and smiled.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

What happened next was a blur. Zo spoke Leo’s name, but was silenced by the force of the younger boy’s lips against his. There were key movements: clothing gradually being discarded, Zo’s arm slipping around his friend’s pale, trim waist, and the mysterious page which Leo had been clutching fluttering to the floor, forgotten. But none could possibly compare to the moment in which Zo pinned Leo against his own bed, his hand resting at the small of his lover's arching back.  


That, at least, he could recall vividly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would love you if you were nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the reviews! They always motivate me.

**III.**

The hour following their tryst had been promising, and sweet.

Facing each other on the bed, both their bodies remained fully exposed. Leo began to doze, and Zo ran his fingers through the young man’s perpetually unkempt hair. It was a moment before he stirred to find Zo’s palm cupping his jaw. From there, Leo allowed Zo to draw him closer for a kiss. His mouth had been so warm, so welcoming, that when the cool air struck his lips once again, Zo almost felt betrayed.

“A question.”

“Hm?” Leo perked up. Zo watched as the muscles of his torso shifted with him.

“Why tonight?”

Leo tilted his head slightly to the side, a position which seemed birdlike. A smile spread across his mouth.

“I’m hardly capable of planning something like this in advance,” he admitted. “It wasn’t my intention when I went to fetch you. But once we were here, together…it felt right.”

Zo could have kissed him again at that very moment, but he refrained.

“What was your intention, then? In the beginning?” he instead asked.

The artist was quiet for a moment.

“On the floor.”

The laugh which Zo emitted startled Leo, who simply stared blankly at his friend.

“Well, I’m glad we did it on the bed, then,” Zo said, and was rewarded with a smack on his shoulder.

“ _Not_ what I meant!” an unamused Leo corrected. “It’s on the floor. What I meant to show you before.”

Zo sits up on the bed, Leo’s hand falling away from his flesh. He leans over until he can see the paper lying stark against the dark floor. He then reaches down, fingertips skimming the dusty wood before finally catching the page between them. Before Leo can snatch his work back, Zo unfolds it.

He sees his own likeness staring back at him.

“You’ve sketched me” Zo stated needlessly, out of pure disbelief. He laid down on his back once more, the lines of his copied visage appearing to shift along with the light.

“I have,” Leo replied.

“And why me?” He thought of his brown skin, and the rumors of his gypsy breeding. Though his shoulders were broad, and his figure well-muscled, he had few qualities of traditional Italian beauty.

“Zo,” Leo half-scolded, appearing to have sensed his lover’s thoughts. “Enough of that. Who else? I’ve always found you pleasing to the eye.”

And as if to punctuate his confession, Leo trailed his fingertip along Zo’s belly up toward his chest, before setting his palm down on the lovely, dark skin just above the other’s beating heart. There was now a new truth for Zo to bear, for he had before glimpsed the contents of Leo’s notebooks. Leonardo da Vinci, the most promising talent which Italy had to offer, found him as equally fascinating as the links between elements, the existence of oceanic behemoths, even the eternal movements of water.

Zo swallowed a laugh, unsuccessfully attempting to conceal the comfort which Leo’s words had so suddenly afforded him.

“Besides _pleasing_ , then. You see models every day who are just so, and you don’t bed _them_.”

“I never said that was the only reason,” Leo defended. “The heart of it, then?”

Zo nodded.

“I suppose it’s because I trust you.”

Leo looked down as the words fell from him. He was fidgeting with his fingers, no longer seeming quite at home. Zo could not form a reply, and so Leo took advantage of his silence.

“I have a question too, Zo.”

“Anything,” Zo encouraged.

Leo took the page from Zo’s hands just then, gently, and held it before him.

“Would you still love me if I weren’t _this?_ ”

An artist, genius, a damned prodigy. Zo’s answer came with ease.

“I would love you if you were nothing.”

Leo’s reaction was unanticipated. He froze as though he’d been struck, and his gaze went cold. He struggled with his following words.

“Please don’t lie to me, Zo. Not you.”

Zo did not understand, could not. He went on.

“I mean every word,” he affirmed.

Within a few moments, Leo had turned from him. He sat on the edge of the bed, beginning to redress himself. He did not speak.

“Why in God’s name would I lie to you?” Zo demanded as Leo’s shirt settled back onto his shoulders.

“Andrea will return soon,” Leo evaded, his voice weakening. “I shouldn’t like him to see me like this.”

Just as Zo was about to reach for him, Leo stood and quickly tugged on his trousers.

“Leo!” Zo snapped.

“If you’re still hungry, I’m sure there’s food downstairs,” Leo stumbled over his words. “I have work to tend to.”

He fled through the doorway like a panicked animal.

So soon, he was gone, leaving a void as wide as the spaces between the stars found in his charts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be a slow death, he imagined. Like starvation on an African coast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest, everyone!
> 
> Also, to respond to a question I received on Tumblr, I definitely plan on continuing this fic into Leo and Zo's travels to South America. I'm excited for it! My knowledge of South American geography and cultures prior to European contact is pretty extensive, and I even speak some Quechua.

**IV.**

_And why did we never speak of it again?_

The moment had never seemed quite right.

Truthfully, Zo had tried, but when next he saw Leo a full week after that night, he was greeted as though it had never transpired. Leo’s speech was candid, at times moving too quickly for Zo to measure. Their shoulders still brushed as they walked side by side in the streets, but Leo did not flinch. There was not a single misplaced gesture to suggest that anything had changed between them. Life went on just as before.

At first, Zo was furious. It was all he could do not to lash out, but he quickly learned to swallow his anger. Leo existed in a realm of his own careful design; tearing him from it would only usher in his disdain. Zo could accept being spurned, but somehow he knew that losing Leo entirely would kill him. It would be a slow death, he imagined. Like starvation on an African coast. Perhaps he’d already been halfway there. For a good long while, everything he’d tasted had felt bitter, tainted.

Now, years later on an evening as sweltering as wildfire, Zo awaits Leo’s arrival. He yet remains of this world, for young men’s hearts are resilient, and hurts scar over in time.

When Leo at last enters the workshop, he is greeted with wild applause, as Zo is not alone. Andrea and the other apprentices are gathered to celebrate Leo’s successful appeal to the Medici. He will serve as their war engineer, as well as their painter, responsible for preserving Donati's beauty through portraiture. Zo suspects it might just well lead to their ruin, of course, but he finds that he cares little for the future when the present has wine.

“Word travels fast,” Leo says as he moves toward the group, depositing his belongings onto a sturdy oak table.

“Ah, there are no secrets in Florence!” Andrea laughs. “How the devil did you do it?”

Leo is not the same as he once was. His boyish brown hair has turned to black (though it still refuses to be tamed). Paired with his skin, darkened through work of the sun, he almost looks like living smoke. The maestro has aged in ways unexpected. His mind has ripened, but the lines around his eyes are more pronounced. There is a weariness which has not been present before. Since the expulsion of meat from his diet his figure has grown thinner, and although Leo claims he’s the better for it, Zo frets.

Zo has changed as well, though the difference is not so noticeable. His stature has grown, and while he was always taller than Leo, he now towers over him. By the day he refines the silver tongue necessary within his trade, walks with greater confidence.

He steps in, a second glass of red wine held between his fingers. He hands it off to Leo as they near one another.

“He played on a woman’s vanity. Your stratagem’s become clear, you bastard,” the scavenger’s tone is playful. “A bastard of the _highest_ order!”

A cheer and a toast follow his words. As everyone drinks, he feels his eyes stray toward Leo. They linger too long, but fortune is merciful and the artist doesn’t notice. By the time the glasses descend, Andrea is already shepherding the young men back to work, leaving Leo and Zo to themselves. Leo beckons his friend toward him with one finger.

“I need you to unearth the Jew’s body,” he utters. “There’s something I must see.”

It takes a moment for the request to prod Zo’s memory. The Jew: the man they’d seen hang in the piazza the day before. Zo leans in toward one of those slender shoulders, briefly catching scent of the opium that Leo huffs late at night at his drawing board.

“And my compensation?” he asks, his thoughts not so focused on matters of coin as the other seems to think. The drink makes him brave. But not quite brave enough to reach for Leo as he so longs to. Zo’s compensation, for years of loyalty, is being forced to watch as Leo becomes involved with lovers who manipulate him, desire more from him than he should ever have to give.

“That depends how fresh the corpse is,” Leo insists.

The realization for Zo is burning, sharp. Despite his words, he would gladly do this for nothing.

“I’d best get digging, then,” he says as he goes, leaving Leo behind.

His purpose rests at the tip of Da Vinci's tongue. That hasn’t changed. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These lovers move through his hollow heart within an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Easter gift! Thanks to you guys, this series is growing into something a lot bigger than I originally thought it would be! I have so many ideas for future chapters. I'm enjoying this so much I don't think I'll be stopping anytime soon.
> 
> P.S.: This is the first time I'm using OCs in this fic so I hope you enjoy!

**V.**

But for all his devotion and obedience, Zo has also had others.

On average, these lovers move through his hollow heart within an hour. They hardly ever choose to linger, nor does he wish them to. They are nothing but pretty faces, the lot of them, and discarding them is much simpler when the act is performed mutually. But then, there are the rare, precious few with whom he has enjoyed a richer form of existence. Zo smiles at the thought, and of this he finds he is ashamed.

Of the women, he can remember only Simona Agostinelli.

She was a pretty young woman with a round face and skin nearly as dark as his own, and she had no home to speak of. It was common knowledge that her sister was a prostitute and would market herself daily while Simona, the younger of the two, roamed the streets with a basket of flowers to sell to any of the well-off signori who happened to pass her by.

Her naked body was truly something to behold, as she was fit from long afternoons spent in constant motion, and her long brown hair streamed over her shoulders in waves. Most impressive, though, were the markings covering the length of her spine: words from an uncommon language which belonged to Simona’s father.

“He was an Egyptian,” she once told Zo as his eyes trailed across that decorated region of skin. The pitch of her voice was high, and there was a certain tenderness to it.

“What does it say?” Zo asked.

“It’s a reminder,” she responded solemnly. “Not to make his mistake. Not to do what he did to my mother.”

“He had two children with her,” he noted, confused. “What did he do wrong?”

“Angela is only my half-sister,” Simona clarified. “My mother had several men, and my father many women. They never married. They had low senses of worth. They forgot how to love, or they turned it away out of fear. I don’t know which. They always longed for each other, though.”

Simona turned to look at him directly.

“When you find someone, be prepared to settle your heart and accept what you’ve been gifted. If you don’t, you’ll destroy each other. Do you understand?”

Zo was suddenly very quiet, but he nodded.

“I understand,” he said.

For several weeks they met like this, on a bed or beneath the nighttime sky, until Zo found that he could no longer bring himself to desire her as he once did. Simona was understanding of this sudden change, and never pressed him further on the matter. It was true enough that they had very little in common, and they had never even been in love to begin with. They said their farewells graciously, vowing to remain friends.

Now, when Zo passes through the eastern quarter of the city, he stops to purchase an orchid from the basket that she carries, and she thanks him with a laugh.

But of course, she was not the last.

The second has only one name: Agnolo. He came into Zo’s life as quick as thunder, and as equally ominous. Daily, Zo ponders the implications of bedding a man whose original purpose for finding him was to deliver news of death. There’d been an old friend, a Venetian merchant whom Zo had frequent and unsavory dealings with. The letter in Agnolo’s hand detailed a “sudden drowning” and how the man’s body had been pulled from the canal days later.

“Oh, piss,” Zo had cursed. He was growing tired of losing his business associates to hired thugs.

“My condolences,” the deliverer said, slightly confused by Zo’s reaction, but ultimately caring very little.

Zo’s aggravation passed. He could see that the man’s clothes were in tatters and took pity. Their fingers brushed as Zo handed over a generous number of florins, for that was the payment, and that should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.

Agnolo is tall, with fair hair of a medium length and skin that freckles in the summer sun. He is older than Zo by just under a decade, but they remain compatible nonetheless. Age is of no consequence between them. Zo thinks the other is quite handsome, with his sharp features and eyes that are delicately shaped, colored gray like dust. It’s almost surreal to see the face of an angel on such a person. He was a soldier once, but fled ranks at a young age and shows little shame regarding this fact. Zo suspects that the choice was never his to make, and that something forced him to leave. He has no guesses as to what. But for all that Agnolo is a responsible lover, he makes habit of disappearing for days, even weeks at a time. Zo doesn’t make the mistake of asking him where he’s gone.

But Zo is not so foolish as others would have him. Agnolo’s voice does not match his presence. He speaks softly, a result of a past injury to the throat which impacted his airway permanently. Agnolo avoids the subject, but Zo has seen other men suffering from identical afflictions. Those men were sellswords and cutthroats, and theirs were marks of strangulation.

Agnolo also possesses an aversion to the Church, which luckily, Zo shares. Instead of attending mass, they spend the greater portion of their Sabbath days together, drowning out the sound of cathedral bells. Love-making has become their religion.

But today, their tradition is spoiled by Agnolo’s mysterious and unpredictable schedule. Zo is left to fend for himself throughout the morning and afternoon hours, and when the sun sets, he eagerly sets off to see Leo, who’s preparing for the damned Medici banquet.

When Zo arrives, he doesn’t expect to be told that he’s no longer welcome to accompany him and Nico to the festivities. He listens with anger in his heart as Leo rattles off his criminal record with condescension, as though he hadn’t been the one to order a sizeable fraction of those misdemeanors. He sounds like a puffed up aristocrat. He sounds like a Medici.

“Decorum means everything to these people,” Leo finishes as he turns back to his mirror, straightening his new doublet. Zo would love nothing more than to toss it into the waters of the Arno.

 _Do you truly think so little of me?_ Zo thinks but does not say.

“Fine,” he substitutes. “Enjoy your pathetic dalliance.”

He rises from his sitting position and is about to leave when Leo grabs his arm.

“That man I’ve seen you with,” he starts. “Who is he? To you?”

It’s an unexpected and invasive question and Zo is in no mood for it. He tears himself away, disgusted by Leo’s nerve.

“We fuck,” he hisses. It’s a sad, petty blow that he immediately regrets. But he’ll be damned if he shows it. At last, he exits the room, but not before casting a look back at Leo. They lock eyesight for a moment, and there is pain etched across the other man’s face.

Zo tries to forget it once he returns home, but only feels ill. Could he have pushed Leo away for the last time tonight? He paces about his tiny room for almost an hour, wishing he had a wiser soul, before his stomach calms enough for him to change and commit to a shallow rest. Even in his dreams he is hounded by thoughts, by doubts. But suddenly, through the darkness he feels a chill creeping up his skin. There are noises. There are voices.

He awakens to find Agnolo holding a knife to Nico’s throat.

“The _fuck_ is happening?” Zo yells, stumbling as he leaps to his feet.

“Zo,” Nico mutters. “Please.”

The boy is trapped between the much larger man and the wall, his feet dangling.

“As I was returning, I saw that the door was open,” Agnolo explains, Nico squirming against his strength. “The boy was almost to your bed. I feared for you.”

“He’s a friend!” Zo pleads. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

There’s gratitude in Nico’s eyes.

Agnolo looks from the boy to Zo and then back again. He stays his blade, lowering Nico to the floorboards before at last backing away.

“If you know him, then,” his lover resigns.

Zo is about to make a smart comment regarding Agnolo’s protective instinct when Nico rushes over to him in a panic.

“The maestro was arrested,” the boy blurts. “Leo is in prison, Zo.”

Zo feels his heart begin to cripple in his chest. He knows that Agnolo’s eyes are on him now.

“What?” is all he can muster.

“Captain Dragonetti said that the charge was _sodomy_ , Zo. He came to the banquet and said so publically. Lorenzo was furious. We need to do something! They’re going to burn him alive, they’re going to burn him…” the other sobs.

Zo grabs Nico by the shoulders, steadying him.

“Who accused him?” he demands to know.

“I have no idea,” Nico admits. “But they must be trying to undermine the Medici, Zo. There’s no other reason for them to do this.”

“Is Leo alright?” Zo presses.

“I have no idea,” the boy replies. “They took him away and I haven’t seen him since.”

This brings Zo no comfort. He knows from all their years together that Leo has been tortured for much, much less. The streets outside are still dark. The decision comes to him easily.

“I’m going to see him,” Zo states. “I need to make sure he isn’t hurt.”

Almost immediately, there is a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” Agnolo says. “If this is conspiracy, then it isn’t safe for you. I’ll go.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

Zo understands just how formidable the other man is, but has difficulty transferring what he perceives as his own problem onto him. But perhaps Agnolo is right. It wouldn’t do any good for Zo to get himself killed. He’s a smooth-talker after all, not a sneak.

Luckily, Agnolo knows this far better than he.

“You don’t have to,” he assures.

Agnolo slips out onto the city streets, and before Zo even knows it, he’s gone. Nico remains with him for a time as they discuss the implications of Leo’s latest set of circumstances. But eventually, Nico recalls Andrea, and insists that he must be told immediately about what has happened. Zo agrees, and he is left alone again with his thoughts. An hour passes by, and then another, but there’s no word. Finally, Agnolo returns just before the break of dawn. His infiltration appears to have been successful. He regales Zo with details of Leo’s condition: the artist is in a cell, bruised but breathing.

“He’s like a little bird,” Agnolo notes. “Even in a cage, he can’t sit still.”

“He is a bit of a powder keg,” Zo laughs.

Agnolo grins, but he remains very quiet.

“And you care for him,” he finally says.

Zo looks up. He opens his mouth to speak, but Agnolo stops him.

“That was not a question, Zoroaster.”

Zo struggles to find the right words. He can’t lie to a man who so obviously deals in secrets.

“I can’t end this,” are the words that flee his lips.

He anticipates Agnolo’s response, kind but stern.

“You already have.”

He came into Zo’s life as quick as thunder, and as equally ominous. He exits like a summer a storm, leaving silence where the rain was before.

On average, these lovers move through Zo’s hollow heart within an hour. Others, a week, perhaps even a month. They never remain. There isn’t room enough for two.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zo sees red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been so busy! I have every intent to keep on updating, don't worry.

**VI.**

Zo hates Vespucci, truly.

He hates how the man looks up at him with eyes like a lizard, and the vanity that he displays despite his graying hair and bulging belly. He hates the deceptive confidence, that conniving demeanor. The sailor is not half as attractive or as clever as he thinks himself to be. But most of all, Zo hates that Vespucci has Leo’s trust.

He could see it the moment the two met, the flash in Leo’s eyes and his booming laughter as he and Vespucci conspired to confront Alfonso. It transformed Zo into an absolute mother hen. Leo was the most intelligent man Zo had ever known, and yet he was too naïve to see that Vespucci not only cared solely for his personal interests, but also desired Leo.

There’s nothing very sentimental about it. Vespucci attempted to bed every pleasing face he came across. It was simply part of his nature. He had even tried to seduce Zo once, on an autumn afternoon in the earliest years of their acquaintance.

 _And I broke your nose, you pig,_ Zo thinks to himself as stands before Vespucci now, trapped in a tense exchange of words. The subject of which, of course, is Leo.

“Don’t tell me you work for Da Vinci for free,” Vespucci chuckles quietly, making the very idea sound absurd.

Zo says nothing, only glances over toward Leo to confirm he is unaware that this conversation is occurring only several feet away. The artist is still leaning over a very messy desk, trying desperately to will some godforsaken watercraft into existence. However, to Vespucci, Zo’s silence betrays him more than words ever could.

“He doesn’t _pay_ you?” Vespucci scoffs. “Is he _that_ well hung?”

Zo sees red.

“You pribbling, foul-mouthed pustule!” he growls, grabbing the front of Vespucci’s shirt with startling force and pulling him forward. There are a thousand threats in his mind then, and an ache somewhere in his heart. For all the venom aimed at him, Zo realizes who he is truly protecting.

He hears their voice.

“Gentlemen!” Leo snaps, ushering in reality.

The four walls of the room have returned, and Vespucci suddenly seems much smaller. Zo’s fingers instinctively uncurl from the ostentatious fabric of the oaf's clothes.

_Leo._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But tonight is different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for what was a hiatus. My muse for this had left for a while, but I got it back! Thanks for the continued interest. Without it, this wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable as it is. Enjoy! The next chapter might even be up sometime later this week!

**VII.**

Zo had halted, become like stone as Leo moved toward him, cupping his face between two hands which were slick with sweat. The world seemed to sway, but whether it was due to the weight in Zo’s chest or the ship beneath his feet, he could not tell.

“Don’t let me get killed for nothing, eh?” Leo requested in timid humor, for in a moment he would be gone, off to find and fight Alfonso. Perhaps, even, to be killed. Zo couldn’t know if he would ever come back, if he would ever see Leo’s very particular shock of dark hair again.

The very thought terrified him, but all he could do was nod before Leo tore himself away.

Later, Zo would be relieved to see that Leo had survived. The vessel was theirs to command. And yet, the ache of worry still tugged at him for hours after. _“Don’t let me get killed for nothing,”_ Leo had asked of him, and he had accepted. It was a promise he took to heart. On this he would not budge.

In the days that followed Leo began to slip away. Zo had never quite seen anything like it before, and at first believed it to be simple exhaustion, a response to the strength of the sun at sea. He himself was guilty of becoming withdrawn in the heat. But soon enough, Zo would start to find Leo murmuring to himself near the bow at dusk. The first time this occurred, Zo left him be. This journey, the Book of Leaves, it was a great mystery to them all, and Leo was working diligently to guide them to some distant shore. He could be forgiven a few quirks.

But tonight is different. Tonight, Zo sidles up behind Leo and places a hand, gently, on his shoulder. Concentration broken, Leo turns to face him.

“Zo,” Leo says softly, his eyes flashing briefly in recognition. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”

Zo has no need for pleasantries. His words are harsh, he knows, but he forces himself to speak them before Leo’s tender gaze wears him down.

“You’ve had other addictions, Leo. But this is the deadliest one yet.”

There’s an uneasy silence before Leo responds.

“What?”

“Leaving Italy, all this madness. You ordered me not to let you get killed for nothing,” Zo presses.

There is anger in Leo’s eyes now.

“Nothing?” he demands. “This is _not-_ ”

“Compared to your life it is.”

Zo expects a retaliation to rival the fury of the Papal armies. His defenses are secure, his mind and heart prepared. Instead, Zo watches as Leo quietly comes undone.

“I’m so tired,” Leo chokes, lifting his arm to run a trembling hand through his hair. “I hear the Turk’s voice wherever I turn. I never asked for this, Zo. I never asked.”

The battle is over before it can even begin. In this moment of weakness, Leo becomes enfolded in Zo’s powerful arms. He holds him as he hasn’t in years: like a lover. And as Leo begins to sob, Zo can feel the artist’s heart pounding hard and fast against his ribs, like a wild bird in a cage.

And still Zo loves him. _I must be going mad as well,_ he thinks. _I’m indentured to Icarus._

“I’m with you, Leo.”

 _I’m truly mad. I’m_ fucking _mad._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But you can’t get mad, Leo, when the stars don’t move as quick as you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews! The next chapter will cover the almost-kiss scene that we all know and love. I was going to include it in this chapter, but it would have made it a bit longer than I wanted and since I'll be largely without internet for a couple days I just wanted to get this up. Thanks for reading!

**VIII.**

Leo no longer sleeps, and a piece of Zo can’t help but fear that this man he adores is shepherding them all toward ruin.

“Half the bloody crew thinks you’re an undead nightwalker,” Zo confesses to him on the tenth restless night, as the ship sails blindly through the dark. His words don’t seem to garner a reaction. In his current state, Leo is all impregnable concentration and bloodshot eyes.

Fortunately, Zo has found someone who also bears witness to the navigator’s worrisome behavior, and whom is willing to try and help make the man see sense. _Unfortunately_ , this someone is none other than Amerigo Vespucci.

The two of them seek Leo out, gently guiding him back into the captain’s quarters where they flank him before he is able to shut them out entirely. The artist seats himself, and a moment later is searching through a pile of maps drawn over the past several weeks from his astounding memory. He soon finds one to be of particular interest, but Vespucci, solidifying his alliance with Zoroaster, snatches it from his hands. Leo deigns to cast the sailor a look more hateful than the devil himself before delving back into the mess of papers before him.

“Are you aware we’re halfway through provisions?” Zo finally asks, his patience wearing thin.

There’s no response. Leo appears lost, at odds with the thoughts that are no doubt swirling about in his mind like birds in flight.

“Leo,” Zo asserts, snapping his fingers. “Hello?”

With a quiet grunt of acknowledgement, Leo finally looks him in the eye. He blinks furiously, squinting as if the lamplight emanating from Zo’s direction is too much to bear. His tiredness is painfully clear. Leo needs to rest, and soon.

“As I said. Provisions, halfway through. Aware? At all?”

“We’ll be fine,” Leo states, his apparent lack of concern leaving his companions shocked.

 _“We’ll be fine,”_ Zo repeats mockingly to Vespucci. He scoffs, shaking his head.

“If you’re wrong, we’ll die at sea,” Vespucci confirms, and Zo notes that this is the first time he's ever heard such fear in the man's voice.

“No one’s going to die!” Leo snaps. “I just need to track our path. I need more _time._ ”

Zo sighs heavily.

_Spare me a lecture on the damned trajectory of Venus, Leo._

It’s only when a presence is felt in the doorway that the three look up to find a crewman standing there, his features written over with anxiousness.

“I fear your time is running short,” the man says. “There’s something you should see.”

* * *

 

 It all comes to a head when in an instant, Leo becomes everything that Zo has ever hated.

Yana and her fellow Circassians, so recently freed from the cruelty of Alfonso and his men, are to be placed back in chains for fear of mutiny. Yana, with her wild tangle of black hair and fire in her heart. The very thought of her bound once again makes Zo sick. He has been amongst slavers nearly all his life, but he has never associated himself with their unsavory work. Even through times of hunger or illness, Zo had always run to Andrea when he needed help. It had shamed him, of course, at times. But what mattered was that he’d never been forced to accept offers of employment from those vicious men. And so, when Leo had stood beside him only minutes before and condemned the foreigners to containment, Zo felt as though he’d been shot through the heart.

After Leo’s counsel with the crew, Zo trails him back to his quarters. Their argument begins almost immediately.

“Do you even know what you’re doing, Leo?” Zo interrogates, frantic. “Do you know how many maps _I’ve_ sold that lead to buried treasure?”

“The Book of Leaves is _real!”_ Leo shouts.

“What if you _do_ kill us out here?” Zo demands in return, echoing Vespucci’s earlier fear. His heart is racing.

The look on Leo’s face is one of abject betrayal. For all his smarts, and for all his charms, the man is as idealistic as a child, so naïve. The map given to him by Al-Rahim is clutched to his chest. His eyes are wide.

“You said that you would follow me,” he speaks painfully.

The room then becomes silent so quickly, so fully, that for a moment Zo can hear the swells of salt water lapping up against the ship’s hull. These fights, these long days of cutting through the ocean with no concept of a destination, this is not why they left port.

“The man I follow,” Zo breathes, “Is an _artist._ He’s a virtuous genius who wants to free the future!”

He can hear the awe, the love in his own voice, and wonders if Leo can as well. A week ago he would have been terrified of that prospect, but now, he welcomes it. Leo deserves to know, _needs_ to know.

“But right now,” he goes on. “I think we left him back in Florence.”

They separate. Zo turns and steps away, taking stock of what he’s just said. Leo sits, slowly and tensely, like he’s just taken a punch to the gut. He gathers himself.

“I understand, you know. Why they don’t trust me,” the other at last offers, the quietness of his words bearing the threat of tears. “But you should.”

Zo turns back.

“Because you’re a great artist? Because you have this way with inventions?” he rebukes, releasing a hollow laugh. “It counts for shit, Leo, when you start putting people in _chains_.”

Leo slumps in on himself, his own shame bringing him to lean over and shield his face from view with his hands as Zo opens his mouth to speak once more.

“Nobody ever knows better than you, do they? But you can’t get mad, Leo, when the stars don’t move as quick as you do.”

Zo feels something just then, an energy pervading the air. Leo picks his head up, silent for a moment before his lips begin to move. His whispers are incomprehensible. His fingers move through the air in that pattern he is so fond of. _Ripples on water._

“What?” Zo asks. “What is it, Leo?”

“The orbits,” Leo replies, a too-rare smile spreading across his lips. “You’ve given me the answer.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Leo, who yells at the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The messages I've gotten showing interest in this fic have been so unbelievably inspiring. Thank you all so much for the interest! I'm hoping to be able to update this much more regularly. Rest assured that I haven't forgotten about it!

**IX.**

Leo throws open the doors of the ship’s cabin like a skin-wrapped storm, all bright eyes and dawning realization. The night, once calm, now has a maddening Florentine to contend with. Zo follows him, eyes wandering from the movements of Leo’s limbs to the stillness of the stars in a vain effort to comprehend.

 _“It doesn’t circle the Earth”_ Leo had whispered when they’d both stood by their maps only moments before. _“None of it does! It all moves around the Sun.”_

Presently, Leo stands shouting as it all falls into place, his arms outstretched as though he expects to be plucked up into the heavens. What happens next is the exact opposite.

“Now I see it,” Leo mutters, and although there’s a string of incomprehensible words to follow, that’s all that his friend can hear before Leo collapses backward without warning.

Zo nearly leaps forward to catch him, but hesitates at the last moment, sensing that the artist, in fact, does not need saving. Leo falls weightlessly until his back hits the grate of the ship’s deck with a soft thud. A breath escapes him, though whether it’s from having the wind knocked out of him or simply from pure, unadulterated wonder, Zo can’t begin to say.

“Leo?” he tries to inquire, but no sound comes.

Zo clears his throat, attempts once again.

“Leo?” he asks. “Should I get the captain?”

“No,” Leo answers, shooting up into a sitting position and glancing back to where Zo stands nervously beside the mast. “The Circassians. Unchain them.”

Zo cracks a proud smile, moving toward Leo until he’s standing directly in front of him, pausing only to pull the other man up to his feet. As Leo finds his balance, he staggers a bit too close to Zo. Their proximity makes something within him ache.

For a moment, Zo tries to convince himself to push Leo away, but he doesn’t have the heart. He never has, he never will. Even as Leo comes perilously close to losing himself in celebration of his miraculous discovery, stopping himself only short of cupping Zo’s face between his ink-stained hands. Leo’s lips had parted at the same time, ever so slightly, as if preparing for a kiss.

No, _definitely_ preparing for a kiss.

But Leo regains his composure, awkwardly retracting his almost-hold and backing away while the tension hangs stagnant in the air. Eventually, he takes to mussing his hair with his fingers, his beaming smile burning through the memory between them. He’s recovered more quickly than Zo expects. But he’s always been quick, always sharp. Vulnerable only to his fits of passion.

Through it all, Zo remains still, forcing himself to expect nothing at all. Leo’s promise to go back on his barbaric choice is enough. It has to be. Zo thanks God for it, pleading.

_This is Leo, who yells at the stars, who I know that I love. Be gentle with him._

Leo pushes him, playfully, like they used to when they were younger. He lets out a triumphant shout before beginning to retreat below deck. One so loud that Zo wonders if it might reach the shores of the New World.


End file.
